


The Red Between Us

by QueenPunk



Series: 50 Scenes [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Brief Instance of Homophobic Language (Mentioned), Crossdressing, Fluff, Getting Together, Halloween Costumes, Hurt/Comfort, Lula (Batman Beyond) is Jason's Daughter, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Public Sex (in an alley), Romance, mention of murder, nonlinear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 19:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenPunk/pseuds/QueenPunk
Summary: “Babybird--Tim. There’s this joint. A little hole in the wall, really. Serves these great hoagies and sometimes tomato pies if Mila’s feelin’ up to it. I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to stop in and grab a bite to eat. With me?”
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: 50 Scenes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1354594
Comments: 8
Kudos: 135





	The Red Between Us

I.

As a kid, Jason’s favorite movie was_ West Side Story _ . When the T.V. hadn’t been sold off to help pay off the overdue 'bills' (the extra cash had likely gone towards drugs, he would realize later), there were only three VHS tapes in their small apartment to choose from with the other two being _ My Fair Lady _ and _ To Kill a Mockingbird _. With his mom passed out on the sofa, their nightly reading of Jane Austen forgotten in her stupor, he would crawl close to the screen, the volume turned low. He would mouth along to the lines, hum to the songs. 

Out of the characters, he clung to Anita. Even that young, he had known that any faith he had in people would be tarnished by something--that something he loved was bound to be taken away from him.

Lying in a pool of his own blood, the taste of rust clotted in his throat, Jason looked up at Tim’s anguished face. His thin lips were moving, twisted in anger, yelling into the comms. 

_ A boy who kills, _he tried to murmur along, the dark living room of his youth swaying around him, erasing the freezing rooftop. For the first time, he realized that, in the scheme of the story, he was Bernado. 

II.

Stephanie painted her nails plum purple in thick strokes, her mouth pinched as she said, “Y’know, Tim. I love you.”

Flopped down on the bed, face pressed into her pillow that smelled like her honey-scented shampoo, Tim grunted. He had laid down originally in defiance of her trying to smear a face mask on him. She continued, “But if I have to hear about Jay’s thighs or his smile or all those other things you blab about when I get you plastered, I’m gonna puke. Like, all over you. Please, put on your big boy Robin pants and ask him out.”

Tim said something unintelligible into the pillow. Stephanie tapped the underside of her finger against the nail polish bottle, considering pouring it onto the back of his neck. Instead, she huffed, “_ Tim. _”

He turned his head slowly. When an eye and the corner of his mouth were visible, he muttered, “I don’t think he likes me like that.”

“God, Tim,” she sighed, shaking her head fondly. “You’re so fucking stupid sometimes.”

III.

Jason traced the invisible scar on Tim’s throat. His hands shook, the muscle memory of how it felt to beat the shit out of his babybird fresh from his nightmare. He remembered screaming, the throb of rage in veins that he knew wasn’t the pit--no, it was him, it was his birthright--it was loving the rush of violence no matter the cost--what if he had cut just a little deeper, remembered _ wanting _ to cut just a little deeper to see if Bruce would get there in time for his new bird--it was curling up under his bed while Willis beat the shit out of his mom and he swore--he _ swore _ that he would never--

Tim blinked blearily. He reached forward with clumsy hands, murmuring. Not even awake, he said, “Shhh, Jay, it’s okay. I’m here.”

IV.

“Look,” Tim scolded. “Look at what you did. Quit smiling. Jason, look at what your daughter did.”

Jason tucked his face into his hands and tried not to laugh. Tried being the keyword. His gut ached as he watched Tim try to explain to Dog that eating an entire pepperoni pizza--what was supposed to have been their date night food--was inappropriate behavior. Dog looked up at Tim and wagged her tail, a big Pitty grin on her face. 

“She gets this from you,” Tim accused him vehemently. “No respect for authority or rules.”

“Sure, sure,” Jason agreed, still chuckling.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Tim informed Dog, puffing his cheeks out in annoyance as she gave him drool filled kisses. 

V.

Sometimes being the shortest in the family--thanks to Damian’s insane growth spurt and a few lucky centimeters that both Cass and Steph had on him--wasn’t all that bad for Tim. People underestimated him, didn’t expect him to fight to the advantage his height gave him. But, there were disadvantages to be found when he wanted to kiss his boyfriend. 

Tim bounced on the balls of his feet. He tilted his head up and fluttered his eyelashes. He smeared another coat of chapstick on, making his lips nice and soft and shiny. Still, Jason, his head located at another altitude entirely, didn’t appear to notice. 

(Jason did notice but because he was an asshole he decided to let Tim suffer a bit longer.)

Tim pouted. He considered socking Jason in the stomach to make him bend over. 

VI.

Tim carefully passed the needle over the flame. Jason pointedly faced away from him, the gash across his shoulder clean but still oozing blood. He chugged down another swig of whiskey before Tim started sewing the flesh back together. He worked quickly, ignoring the warm skin that fleeted against his fingertips. 

“Y’know what?” Jason said, voice slightly slurred. 

“Hm?”

“You aren’t half bad,” he tilted his head back, a vicious version of the smile Tim had dozens upon dozens of pictures of locked away in a vault. His cheeks darkened, first at the praise and then in embarrassment as he waited for the verbal blow. He willed his eyes to meet Jason’s, to not let them follow the curved line of his neck, to not let them linger on the small amber drops of whiskey beading down a corner of his plush lips. “For a Replacement.”

VII.

“Be my Robin,” Jason said. 

The words echoed in Tim’s head long after the Batarang scar on his chest faded. As he sat across from Jason, bulletproof glass between them, he wondered what would have happened had he said yes. If he had known that he was going to lose Robin--be _ stripped _ of a title no one wanted him to have in the first place--would he have said yes? Could he have said yes and not regretted it?

Dark, bruised circles were stark under Tim's eyes. He met Jason’s gaze and refused to be the first to look away. He picked up the black phone. No matter the history. He needed Jason now. Even if it meant breaking him out of prison. 

VIII.

“Do you think we should offer to babysit?” Tim whispered. The two watched as Dick climbed up the side of the mansion, calling out for his little princess to come down for nap time. Mar’i, four years old and already having none of her Daddy’s bullshit, simply floated from the house to the top of one of the tallest oaks on the estate. She idly sucked on her thumb. Behind her trailed the broken strap of her leash. When her blue eyes looked towards her uncles, sitting on the patio and enjoying not being parents, she lifted her free hand in a wave. They waved back and she gave a gap-toothed smile before turning back to glare at Dick.

“Maybe when she’s five?” Jason suggested. Then, later, when he noticed her chubby fist flickering with green flames the closer Dick got to the top of the tree, “Maybe ten. Ten is a good age to babysit, right?”

IX.

Bruce sat stewing at the Batcomputer. Cowl pulled back, his stone face easily masked his puzzlement at the images before him. Two of his adopted sons out and about around Gotham, laughing and embracing as they went about on their date. Babs had sent them a few hours prior with a note saying, “Don’t be stupid.”

Truthfully, aside from his many misgivings about Jason’s bloody hands, Bruce’s biggest issue at the moment was wondering which son he was supposed to give the shovel talk to. Tim? Jason? 

_ Perhaps _ , he decided, _ I should leave it for Dick to decide. _

X.

The grit of the brick wall stung against his palms. His disguise was already partially in tatters--pantyhose ripped in the back, the underside of his skirt stained from precum, the long, brunette wig starting to slide, mascara coming off under his eyes. His mouth, kiss-swollen with the lipstick a smudged stain across the bottom half of his face. 

Tim bit back a whimper. He pressed his forehead against the wall. Jason, thrusting shallowly, draped across his back. He brushed the strands of hair away from his neck, pressed open mouth kisses against the damp skin. Tim tilted his hips back with each thrust. The head of his cock caught on the waistband of his panties. 

“Hood,” he whispered, desperate to keep quiet. “I think I’m about to--”

“Right there with you, babybird,” Jason moaned, his hips snapping faster. Arms wrapped tight around Tim’s middle. The sides of his leather jacket blocked out the neon glow at the end of the alley. All Tim could focus on was the throbbing of his cock, the sound of Jason’s heartbeat against his spine, Jason’s belt buckle digging into one of his ass cheeks, the pressure building as his prostate was ground against. Jason bit into the meat of Tim’s shoulder as he came. Tim came at the first hint of pressure from Jason’s hand.

“Y’know,” Jason commented after, as Caroline Hill tried to straighten the sex-ruined outfit. “You could wear skirts more often. S’kinda hot.”

“Easy access?” Tim said with a little snort. Jason reached down, tried to roll up the hem of the skirt once more. Tim slapped his hand away as Jason agreed with a grin, “Easy access.”

XI.

“I didn’t know!” Jason hissed. His grip on Tim’s shoulders was bruising. He needed Tim to see he was telling the truth. “I swear to God I didn’t fucking--I would have--we weren’t even dating yet and--”

Tim reached up and cupped his face in his hands. “I know, I know. This is a lot. But you have to calm down.”

His grey eyes kept a hold on his. A soothing circle was traced over and over on the high points of his cheeks with Tim’s thumb. His tone of voice was even, confident, gentle, the way he talked to civilians caught in the line of fire. Tim said, “I know you’re freaking out right now, but there’s a little girl in there who just lost her mom. A little girl who has your hair and your freckles and who probably is gonna have us wrapped around her fingers in half a second if we go in there.” He paused. “Do you want to go in there?”

In the next room, swinging her legs in her highchair as Alfred prepared a snack, three-year-old Tallulah clutched at her stuffed puppy. She kept trying to wriggle out of her seat to play with the real puppies that were lying protectively around her. Dog stretched up to meet her grabby hand. She licked at the pudgy little fingers. A delighted gasp and giggle.

Back with Tim and Jason, their conversation halted. A small tug started at the corner of Jason’s lips as those giggles echoed down the cold hallways. Sometimes, when Bruce made snap decisions (like bringing in an orphan he suspected of being his grandchild) he wanted to snap the old man’s neck. He supposed, this time, he could make an exception. 

“Yeah,” Jason whispered. “I want to go in there.”

XII.

“Jason,” Tim rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes. His x-cup of coffee was starting to wear off. “ If you play The Zombies one more time I will throw your ass back in prison.”

“Sorry Tim,” Jason said, cranking the radio louder as he started to sing along. “I can’t hear you over--_ and let me try with pleasured hands to take you in the sun with-- _ no, _ to promised lands, to show you everyone. It’s the time of the season for loving!” _

XIII.

Tim supposed that he first started falling for that smile through a viewfinder. Cocky, a little snarled at times, but wide and beautiful. The new Robin seemed free and snappy as he trailed behind Batman. He thought he would never have enough pictures of his favorite Robin smiling. 

But, as the years went on, Tim noticed the smile was more of a strain. The punches landed were a lot harder. The tension between Batman and Robin--father and son--was fraying to a break faster than either could have anticipated. Tim, from the shadows of the shadows, behind the viewfinder, didn’t see the moment everything fell apart. He only saw a city without Jason’s smile. 

XIV.

“So, uh,” Roy cleared his throat. Jason ignored him, still staring off moonstruck in the direction Red Robin had flown off the building. A hand was pressed against the side of his red helmet, where, moments before, Tim had pressed a kiss to his covered cheek. “How long has this been going on?”

When the big, bad Red Hood didn’t answer him, he continued, “Do I need to send in my RSVP to the wedding now or later…?”

XV.

“It’s such a disappointment,” R’as al-Ghul complained. “That you’ve decided to align yourself with such an unworthy partner. If only you had---”

“Get off his dick, old man!” Jason snapped. “Listen, you had your chance to bitch after the line ‘does anyone have any fucking objection.’ Missed your cue. Why are you even _ here?” _

Tim, already on his fifth shot since the reception started, answered, “Entertainment.”

XVI.

Alfred found Tim in the kitchen. An unusual place for the boy, even considering the early hour. Of all the boys, the ones who frequented the area most throughout the year had been Jason and, strangely enough, Damian. Dick, when younger, had always wanted to shadow Bruce’s every move. Tim kept away out of some false belief, Alfred assumed, that the kitchen was a sacred domain that only servants were allowed in.

Of course, Tim was no longer an awkward little boy. The young man sat hunched over on the barstool as he stared intently at the microwave--a horrible contraption--that was cooking some sort of freezer packaged abomination. A Hot Pocket ™ . 

“Master Tim,” Alfred said, stepping out from the dark hallway. “If I had known you were up I would have fixed you a cup of coffee.”

“Hm?” Tim didn’t jump at his presence. He was still dressed in his clothes from when he had left. A faint, pink shade tinged the edges of his eyes. “You don’t have to, Alfred. I was just getting something to eat in my ro--the _ dining _ room.”

“I can see that,” Alfred sniffed, starting to make the coffee nonetheless. Three cups should suffice--Bruce was out of town for a WE issue. He let the silence hang on for a beat longer than necessary. “How was your weekend in Metropolis? Was the concert entertaining?”

“The concert was good,” Tim said. The microwave beeped and he hurried around to pull the plate out. “We went to a, uh, club after. _ AlsoKonandIbrokeup _.”

The last part was mumbled in quick succession. Unsurprised, Alfred grabbed the plate out of his hands. He tipped its contents into the trash, ignoring Tim’s wince as he said, “I’ll prepare waffles for an early bird treat. Did Master Conner and you have a civil break up or was it more akin to setting fire to the Batmobile type of separation? I would like to be prepared in case it is the latter.”

Tim, sitting back down, laid his head in his arms. For a long while, the only sounds were that of the coffee dripping as it brewed and the gentle whisking of flour and eggs and Alfred’s secret ingredient. Finally, Tim admitted, “In between the fire and being fine. I guess he just realized what he really wanted and well,” he sighed. “It wasn’t me.”

“Should I warn Clark about any possible fits of pyromania in Metropolis?”

“No,” Tim said, laughing a little, leaning up to study his hands. “I think I’m starting to realize he wasn’t what I wanted either. Not like that.”

Hearing the rumble of Jason’s motorcycle tearing up the driveway, Alfred quietly surmised that perhaps what Tim wanted was closer than he expected. 

XVII.

The bullet hit Red Robin midswing. The modern highrises circled around like vultures, the sky a grey-violet twilight smog, he could hear the wind whistling in his ears. There was a crowd screaming below. The smell of smoke. Pain laced his abdomen, the red of his blood mixing with the red of his costume.

A body slammed into his before he hit the ground. Leather against his cheek. Red, red, red in the corner of his eye. A deep voice in his ear telling him he was going to be alright. 

XVIII.

Tim woke up to a knife at his throat. His room in the Titan’s Tower was pitch black, but the face pressed nose to nose to his was so close that he could see the white caps of the mask. A heavy, bulky body was draped over his own, great tremors wracking across his frame. Deranged muttering, an accusation, “You, _ he _ picked _ you.” _

Tim would bet high money that those eyes were toxic green behind the mask, that the rage-filled adrenaline was being enhanced by the Lazarus Pit’s poison.

“Ja--”

The knife cut deeper. Warm rivulets started to run down his neck. Jason hissed, “Shut. Up. Shut the fuck up. Maybe he’ll make you a shrine, too.”

That grin, too twisted to be the one that took up hidden pictures, beamed down at him, “Let’s see if he’ll do for you what he never did for me.”

_ Revenge. _

XIX.

“But, _ why?” _ Lula cried out. “Mar’i gets to lead the Titans, Jake’s already training to take a name. Lian’s been doing this since she was my age! _ Both _of you were doing this at my age! So, why?”

_ “Why can’t I be Robin?” _

XX.

“Do you think we would’ve gotten here sooner,” Jason murmured, an arm slung over Tim’s shoulders, “if I hadn’t died?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said honestly. “I don’t know how I would’ve turned out if I hadn’t become Robin. I don’t know what I would have done without Bruce’s guidance. I was always alone, before, and that does things to people in the long run. Maybe I’d have ended up in the Rogue’s Gallery?”

“Maybe we can see about lookin’ into the multiverse,” Jason suggested. “Better than ‘what ifs.’”

XXI.

“I’m so sorry,” Mar’i sobbed. “If I had flown faster--”

Tim opened his mouth. He reached forward to pull his niece into a hug. He tried to ignore the casket on the other side of the room. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lula snarled, black tear marks cut down her cheeks. “Your guilt trippin’, lookin’ for forgiveness ass can go somewhere else. _ You _fucked up, princess.”

Mar’i’s lip curled. Voice tight, she started to say, “I am trying to ap--”

Lula lunged and tackled Mar’i to the ground, screaming. _ If nothing else _ , Tim thought as he tried to break the girls up, _ Jason would be happy this funeral is livelier than the last. _

XXII.

“Sooo,” Barbara drawled out. On her myriad of computers, she located a program titled _ The Shelley Protocol _. “Finally ready to return to the land of the living, zombie-boy?”

“Eh,” Jason shrugged, fiddling with the velvet box in his pocket. “Figure it’s about time, Barbie.”

The next day, the world would wake up to the miraculous news of Jason Todd-Wayne’s survival. The story would contain drama, intrigue, amnesia, and a long-dead, long lost twin. The next day, Tim Drake would wake up to breakfast in bed and a silver ring on his finger.

XXIII.

Tim found Jason smoking on the rooftop. His red helmet gleamed at his feet. Going for light conversation, a new concept between them, he asked, “I thought you quit?”

“My mom died today,” Jason’s voice was rough. Like he’d chain-smoked a whole pack of those cancer-sticks. Like he’d spent the earlier part of his morning crying.

“I know,” Tim said, not knowing what to say.

“Good old Cathy,” Jason blew out twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. “Love her, but damn did she have some awful fucking vices. S’what killed her. I tried--”

He cut himself off, choked before he sucked in more from the cigarette. Tim understood. A kid could try, but there was nothing a kid could do to save their parents from themselves. 

XXIV.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Tim said. He double knotted the thin string at his neck keeping the red cape attached. He was naked underneath, nipples bright pink from the rough material rubbing against them. The cloth hood on top of his head kept trying to fall forward into his eyes. Sitting astride Jason’s torn-jean clad thighs, he glared down at his partner and sniffed, “And, for the record, I am _ not _a furry.”

“Babybird,” Jason said behind his cheap, rubber wolf mask. “It’s almost Halloween. I’m tryin’ to be festive.”

“_ You _,” he hurtled like an insult, “just think the ‘Red riding Hood’ joke is too much of an opportunity to pass up. We’re not even going out like this.”

“Ya sure?” Jason asked. A large, scarred hand--the nails painted black for the occasion--slipped under the hood. Cupped at Tim’s hard cock and taut balls. “I think the neighbors would _ love _to see you take Halloween slut to the next level.”

Tim rocked into the palm, biting his lip. He tilted his head to the side, blinking innocently, “But then I wouldn’t be riding _ you _now, would I?”

XXV.

Alfred busied himself setting the table in the tea room. Jason and he had a standing day each month set aside where they discussed their latest literary endeavors. While Bruce as a child had dissected most literature the way scientists conducted experiments, Jason had always seen the life within the text. The characters were real people, their motivations complex, the story meant to be lovingly thought over and understood. Alfred was looking forward to hearing Jason’s take on _ Second Class Citizen _ by Buchi Emecheta. An insightful read into the racial and class dynamics at play in Britain during the 1960s. As someone who had been alive during that same time period, Alfred had found the whole book rather eye-opening.

Jason arrived, in a regular t-shirt and jeans instead of looking as if he spent all of his free time in biker bars. They ate pastries and Alfred listened with delight as Jason ranted about Adah’s rotten bastard of a husband. As he was getting really worked up, hands gesturing wildly, he paused. His eyes focused outside the window. Alfred followed his gaze and saw Tim walking around in the garden, dressed in sweats and an oversized sweater, his old camera clutched in his hands.

“Master Jason?” Alfred prompted him to finish his thought. 

Jason hummed. He dropped his hands--mindful of the teacups--onto the table. His voice was small, familiar, when he said, “Alfie?”

It was the same small voice he had used years and a funeral ago, in the quiet of the kitchen when he’d ask for a late-night snack. The voice that he admitted to nightmares, missing his mom, and it was the voice he had used when he said he liked girls but he thought he might like boys too, sometimes. And he wondered if that was okay.

“I think I like Tim more than I should,” Jason admitted.

Alfred was unsurprised.

XXVI.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason said, bouncing their fussy toddler on his hip. He stared at the literal collage coating their entire refrigerator. Advertisements with some cutesy animal photos thrown in. A new set of magnets to hold everything up--bats and lions and tigers and bears all decked out in Santa hats and with enough Holiday lights strung around their necks to give the WWF a heart attack. “You wanna take Lula-belle to the zoo to see the lights?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Tim said, sipping at his coffee. 

XXVII.

“Y’know, we don’t have to go back to Gotham. We could stay here.”

“Be normal.”

“Yeah, be normal.”

“_ Play _at being normal.”

“...”

“Just--just think about it, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Gotham is…”

“I know.”

XXVIII.

When Tim came home, he found Jason collapsed onto a heap on the sofa. His face was pressed deep into the cushions, his ridiculously long legs dangling over the armrest. Scattered across the coffee table across from him was his collection of Jane Austen novels. He had wanted to re-read them all within the first month of the New Year. Tim didn’t see a whole lot of progress happening.

Before he even had to say anything, Jason turned his face free from suffocating. He said, utterly serious, “Tim, I realized something.”

“What?”

“I’m not Knightley,” he said, face full of despair. “I think I might be Darcy. Stupid, stupid Darcy.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Tim said.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Debatable. You really shouldn’t define yourself by fictional characters. It’s not healthy, Jay.”

XXIX.

“God, Tim,” Jason gaped in awe. His eyes were ignited cat-green by computer screens, standing out like stars in the dark cave. He dragged a hand through his hair, his one white curl bouncing its way back into place. “You’re a fucking _ genius.” _

XXX.

The two of them argued over who would tell Dick since the start of their relationship. Tim argued that Dick would be less likely to punch him. Jason argued that he needed to record the event for his own personal entertainment. Eventually, they settled on a truce. They would tell Dick together. They brought him to his favorite diner, paid for the meal, and then told him the news. 

Fingers twined together on the table, they waited for Dick to react.

Dick’s chewing on his burger slowed. He blinked once, twice. Set his burger down. 

Jason’s free hand curled into a fist, waiting for him to piss him off. Tim started to shrink back in on himself, shoulders hunched.

“Dating?” Dick echoed their declaration. “Yeah, of course, you’re dating. Roy told me about it right after you got together. Cost me forty bucks. Did you guys really think I didn’t know?! What kind of detective do you take me for, huh?!”

XXXI.

Catherine Todd was never buried. By the time Jason had been snatched up by Bruce, her organs had all been extracted for medical studies. What was left was cremated and thrown away. Shitty, thrown away like garbage, just like in every other part of her life. Bruce had placed a modest headstone with her name on it in the Wayne Cemetery. A symbolic gesture that Jason never understood. What was the use of a stone? 

He told Tim, “Bruce likes to go and make himself even more depressed in that graveyard. What’s he think’s gonna happen? Thomas and Martha rising up to congratulate their son on running around punching criminals?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Tim said.

“True, true,” Jason conceded, foot-tapping against the pavement. A rush of energy, like spiders under his skin, green flickering in his vision. Tim looked up at him, eyes lost behind the white eye caps. The rush was snuffed out. It was starting to happen like that more and more. A fire that was getting harder to maintain. 

He sighed, “I’m not gonna stare at a slab in the ground. Isn’t her. She’s not here and I’ve just had to get used to it.”

Tim continued on their beat, cape fluttering behind him. Jason wondered how they even got on the topic to begin with. As they crouched on two gargoyles across from one another, Tim said, “I guess I see your point. But, it’s a bit nice, at least, to know where your parents are. Even if they’re dead.”

XXXII.

Three shots of tequila in, Tim announced without any prompting, “I sucked Jason off last week.”

Steph sputtered, the beer in her mouth spraying onto Cass, who looked impassive and unsurprised. She lifted a napkin and tried to mop them both up. Tim wondered why so many people were unsurprised when thinking about their relationship. Was he that obvious? Was _ Jason _that obvious? Tim could never tell. 

Dick gagged, “I did not need to know that. Why would you--you know what? You’re cut off! No more tequila. Who let you drink in the first place? You’re not even legal ye--”

Roy clapped his hands, “_ That’s _ why Jason’s been so happy lately!”

XXXIII.

(A secret. Tim knew who killed the Joker. Cut him up into little pieces and set them on fire. Overly cautious. There was no mistakes, no way to resurrect that insufferable being ever again. Jason said, once, “I wonder what happened to Harley.”

Tim shrugged. Thought about the birthday presents he sent to her daughter every year. Little Lucy Quinzel who never smiled, scared of her own laughter. Another secret. He never wanted to ask Bruce if he knew. 

Tim knew who killed the Joker. He hoped she lived a happy life.)

XXXIV.

“Wanna know what’s fucked up?” Jason asked, loading his plate as they walked down the buffet. The best part of any wedding, as any freeloader would agree. Kori, already chewing on a hunk of fried chik’n, said, “That there is no meat here?”

Roy piped up, balancing three plates on one arm, “That the ringbearer was a giant, red demon?”

“That for some reason, _ I _was invited?” Artemis grumbled, refusing to stop glaring at the dry falafels. She complained, “We’re not even dating anymore. I thought I was done dealing with your family!”

“That Bizarro no have cake yet?”

Tim snaked his arms around Jason’s waist. His cheek rested against the impressive cut of Jason’s shoulders in his tuxedo. His possible soulmate--but not yet his fiance--hit the nail on the head when he suggested, “Maybe it’s that _ Damian _ and Maps got married before us?”

“Not my fault Maps proposed the second they both turned eighteen,” Jason defended himself. “That shit should be illegal.”

“Eh,” Roy said. Lian and Jade were both starting to look impatient for their food. “I think we’ve all done stupider things.”

XXXV.

“So,” Damian said, words dripping with disgust. The rest of the family, dressed appropriately for Thanksgiving, continued to happily munch away at the food. Once more ignoring the obvious drama with silent tension. “Are we really going to pretend that Drake and Todd haven’t been missing since the first course?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. 

XXXVI.

Tim sipped at his coffee before he said, casually, “I’m thinking about asking Jason to marry me. Not that it really matters in the end--no offense--”

“None taken,” Bruce said. The only sign of his shock was a twitch of his jaw.

“--but it would be nice to have your blessing.”

Bruce pretended to think on it. He thought fondly on last night when Jason marched in with the declaration, “Asking Tim to marry me this weekend. Get with it or suck it up, old man.”

“I have no objections.” _ Hopefully, Jason will propose first. _ Bruce couldn’t stand to lose a bet. 

XXXVII.

Years and years ago, Jason once thought being Robin gave him magic. A dream come true. 

Jason knew now he had been wrong.

Kissing Tim was the closest magic he’d ever get.

XXXVIII.

Red Robin clutched tight to his bo staff. At his back, the Red Hood panted along with him as they recovered from the fight. The goons around them groaned. He heard Hood click the safety on, stuff his guns back into their holsters. Tim hid his sigh of relief--he never knew when Jason was going to be insane or reasonable. Collapsing his bo, he said, “Thanks for the assist. I’ll take it from here.”

Jason ignored him and walked away. 

XXXIX.

Jason supposed he first started falling for those eyes behind bulletproof glass. Even with dark bags under them, Tim’s eyes never looked more gorgeous than when he focused his entire energy into something. Whether that be breaking someone out of prison or distracting a wayward toddler or finding the true focus of a photograph, those quicksilver eyes could seemingly see through everything and everyone. It was addicting. To be trapped in that gaze when the mask was off. 

It wasn’t a problem, Jason assured himself as he chose not to think about it. The chills he got when Tim looked at him. It wasn’t a problem until he found he didn’t like sharing his gaze. Now, Jason didn’t have an issue with any of the Supes or had any bias against clones. But, if given the chance to punch that smug-ass look off of Tim’s boyfriend with a fistful of Kryptonite ever arose, well, he would _ try _to restrain himself.

XL.

Jason was burning. Since he rose from the Lazarus Pit’s depths. Since the Joker locked him in a warehouse with a bomb. Since he found his birth mother in the middle of the desert. Since he started arguing with Batman. Since Batman found him jacking tires in that alleyway. Since he starved in the cold streets for months after his Mom died. Since he had to keep house while his Momma was high. Since that bastard Willis got his kicks knocking the both of ‘em around. Since Sheila took one look at him as a newborn and decided he’d never be worth anything. 

Talia slipped her bra back on. He tried to focus on anything but her, on what they’d done, what they’d been doing. She pulled a set of files out of her bag. She set them down on his desk, underneath the corkboard where he kept track of the crime movements in Gotham.

“Some information on your,” her lips curved. Not in a smile. Just a movement to show that she might be human, that she was trying to seem relatable to him. To make him trust her. 

Jason flipped the file open. He gritted out the word for her, “Replacement.”

_ Tim Drake. _

Jason felt like a living flame. 

XLI.

The house was dark and silent. Jason laid awake. He could hear Dog’s soft snores coming from the end of the bed. When there was a lull in her breathing, a bit too long between snores, he would nudge her with his foot. The coffeemaker was already starting to drip, prepared for when he’d wake up. Jason didn’t check the clock when the front door swung open, a quietly planned creak of the hinges. Tim’s footsteps, heavier than natural for him to let Jason know who was in their apartment. 

Tim showered for a long time. The pitter-patter almost like raindrops. Jason considered going in there to make sure he was still alive. Before he could get up, the water stopped.

When Tim finally--_ finally _\--crawled into bed, Jason let himself relax. He pressed kisses against the damp skin at Tim’s throat. His thumb rubbed soothing circles over the sharp jut of his hip. Tim sighed, exhausted, mumbled against Jason’s lips that he was tired. Needed to sleep. 

Jason brought one of Tim’s hands to his lips as he drifted off. He paused, kissed at the tips, the calloused pads. He licked his lips and wondered why Tim’s hands smelled like blood.

XLII.

After their shared patrol, Jason scuffed his boot against the ground. Tim unbuckled his uniform, packed away his bo staff, pretended not to be aware of every move Jason made. Jason cleared his throat, “Babybird--_ Tim. _There’s this joint. A little hole in the wall, really. Serves these great hoagies and sometimes tomato pies if Mila’s feelin’ up to it. I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to stop in and grab a bite to eat. With me?”

Tim looked up. He opened his mouth. Jason prattled on before he could answer, “It’s fine if ya don’t want to. Kinda stupid of me t’ask. Ya probably got something else you’d rather be doing than eating in the Bowery this late at night. S’all cool, though. We could go another time. Maybe drag old Brucie out for a bit of slummin’.”

Tim laid a hand on Jason’s chest. His heartbeat was thumping at a terrifying rate. A small smile on his lips, glad he didn’t have to be the first to ask, Tim said, “Don’t stress yourself out. It’s a date. I’d kill for a good hoagie right about now.”

“Kill?”

“Severely maim,” Tim amended. 

XLIII.

Tim wriggled his way into Jason’s arms. He was careful not to disturb his place in the novel. Tim believed it may have been Beloved by Toni Morrison. Or maybe it was Sula? He didn’t remember what order Jason was reading them in this time.

As Jason pressed a kiss to the top of his head, Tim snuggled in. Quietly, he asked, “Read to me?”

And Jason read to him.

XLIV.

“What are you two doing?!” Damian gaped. Behind him, Maps covered her eyes with her hand. It would have been more effective if her fingers weren’t spread out. There was a ball of tawny fluff cradled in her other hand. Another one of Damian’s rescues, Tim assumed.

Tim laid back on his bed. He huffed out, “This is _ my _room.”

Jason cleared his throat, “Well, ya see when two vigilantes love each other very much--”

XLV.

“I think your friends hate me,” Jason admitted.

“Give it time,” Tim said, trying to make light of the tense dinner. “You did break into the Titan’s Tower and try to kill me once upon a time. It’s gonna take ‘em a little longer to understand how Gotham relationships work.”

Jason’s expression was strained, “Tim--”

“Jeez, can’t a guy make a joke?”

XLVI.

Tim stood at the base of the staircase drinking in the sight before him. Bruce sat at the Batcomputer, looking over a case. Jason leaned over Bruce’s shoulder, pointing out something that he probably believed Bruce was overlooking. Cass sat on the corner of the desk, watching much like he was. A new file seemingly opened itself up on the screen--Barbara, leaking information from the precinct. At the mats, Dick and Kori were sparring, although it looked more like a well-oiled dance. Steph laid on the floor, panting and clearly done with her workout. In a dark alcove, Damian cradled Mar’i, already six months old and fascinated with Goliath’s red fur. Maps sat astride the beast’s back, designing a new Batgirl outfit in her sketchbook.

“Pardon me, Master Tim,” Alfred brushed past him with a tray filled with sandwiches. The phone in Tim’s pocket buzzed from the Titan’s group chat.

If Tim were more of an emoter, he could have cried. Instead, he marveled at how different his life was from that little boy who used to come home to an empty mansion. As he wrapped an arm around Jason’s waist, he hoped that everything truly would turn out okay in the end.

XLVII.

Tim kept still. He didn’t want a single creak of the rickety fire escape to halt the scene in front of him. A scrawny boy--not much older than Tim--was trying to steal the Batmobile’s tires. He wore threadbare clothes, clearly torn around the joints by use and not for fashion. Tim brought his camera up, focused on the serious expression on the boy’s face. Under a mop of black curls, Tim could barely make out a smattering of freckles in his viewfinder. 

He snapped a picture when Batman laughed. Tim nearly gasped at the sound. Had Batman _ ever _laughed before? 

As the two roared off--presumably to bring the boy to an orphanage--Tim shook his head and marveled at his treasured find. How wonderful must it feel to make Batman laugh? If Tim were that boy he’d be having the best night of his life.

XLVIII.

Tim knew he was dying. The cold water batted him around like yarn in a cat’s paws. His breather had been knocked out ages ago. Sometimes, he would see the white flicker of the moon past the waves. Mostly, he saw blackness. The water, he guessed, would be red, red, red from the massive gash in his side. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs. His head felt like it was filled with cement. 

Warmth bloomed at his wrists. Hot hands gripped him at his armpits and yanked him--up? he guessed--and then he saw the red of his own uniform. The red of a gleaming helmet.

XLIX.

A forgotten memory.

At only ten years old, Tim was starting to hate Christmas. It was the one time of year his parents came home--for the parties, the balls, the requisite charity gala that he was starting to doubt they truly cared about. They dressed him up and actually took him out of the house to show off like a prized show-dog. He wished that they would spend more time with him. That, maybe, the three of them could go to the Gotham Zoo. They put up Holiday lights in the animals’ enclosures. He had heard there was a train and a tunnel filled with stars where the African Plains exhibit was. He had printed out brochures and laid them around the house, hoping they’d get the hint but they never did.

At least, for this fundraiser, they were at the Waynes’ residence. _ Batman’s house _ , he couldn’t help thinking with a shiver of excitement, _ I’m in Batman’s house! _ Of course, he still had to put up with the insufferable attention of his peers. Shut off in a well-decorated ‘play-room’ so as not to disturb the adults, the group had quickly descended on the weakest link. 

They had cornered him underneath the arch of the doorway. Above his head dangled the delicate leaves and bright red berries of the mistletoe. The other kids laughed and jeered, shoving the girls his way, who all screamed about getting cooties from the weirdo of their class. The girls tried pushing the ringleader at him (Stilton? His name was Stilton, right?), but he had only sneered and said, “Yeah, I bet he’d like it if I stood next to him. Little fa--”

Tim ducked his head, cheeks burning at the rest of the word. Shame bubbled in his gut. He wanted to be at the zoo, looking at the colored lights. There were never any stars in Gotham. The tunnel lights would be the closest he’d get to seeing starlight outside of books.

A presence at his back. An unfamiliar voice, the accent from deep in the Bowery, “Alright, alright, kiddies. Alfie sent me to send yous guys packing for the night. Grab ya shi--_ stuff _ and go find ya parents.”

Thirteen-year-old Jason Todd-Wayne--_ Robin! Robin to the rescue! _ Tim thought wildly--didn’t have to be sequestered away. He was old enough to stand there as the grownups did nothing but talk. His white shirt was untucked, tie loosened. The curls in his hair were valiantly fighting against being well-combed. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothing. 

He was standing under the mistletoe with Tim.

Stilton? was quick to lift a hand and point at the offending plant. The girls giggled.

Tim was going to _ die. _

Jason sidled up next to him. His eyes were narrowed, glancing between the group of kids and Tim standing by himself. He wasn’t stupid. He was Robin. Tim wanted to die. He didn’t want Robin to see him like _ this. _

Jason smirked. Then he leaned down and planted a soft kiss--a gentleman’s kiss--upon Tim’s red, red, red cheek. Robin kissed his cheek. _ Robinkissedhischeek! _

Then, Jason turned to the group, smile quite vicious, “S’not a big deal. Ya shoulda seen the kinda shi--_ stuff _ I got up to in Crime Alley, eh?”

The group collectively stepped away from him. Away from the outsider. If they had pearls, they’d be clutching them. As Jason waved and walked away, the group circled around Tim. Faux concern, because they may have bullied Tim, they may have said mean things to and about Tim, they may even have thought he was a creep with his camera, but Tim was still one of _ them. _ And, in their eyes, he had been violated by the one their parents warned them about. Bruce’s _ pet _ project.

Tim didn’t notice. He was still seeing stars.

L.

“You’ve never seen _ West Side Story _?!” Jason gaped, hand over his heart as if Tim had admitted to a mortal sin. Tim rolled his eyes, snuggling deeper under the covers. 

“I don’t really watch musicals,” Tim admitted. “I think I’ve heard pieces of a song or two. ‘I Look Pretty’ is from that movie, right?”

“It’s ‘I _ Feel _ Pretty', ya fuckin' heathen,” Jason corrected, shaking his head as he typed the title into the archives they had stored on the T.V. Tim, pushing his feet into the couch cushions, tucked his head into the hollow of Jason’s throat. Jason pressed a quick kiss to his dark hair and said, “The only thing you need to know is that Anita is the best.”

Tim hummed, “We’ll see about that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me @ Me: What are you even writing? What is this?  
Me back @ Me, crying: I DON'T KNOOOOW!!!
> 
> Also, I can't claim the idea of Lula being Jason's daughter. I read it on Tumblr ages ago (when I still used the site). I honestly don't know who came up with it. If anyone knows the post I am talking about, please link me to it so I can give proper credit.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated and keep me writing!


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